The Hand of Fate
by deinvati
Summary: At 17, Arthur knew he'd figured out what love was. At 18, he knew he was wrong. At 17, Arthur believed in destiny. At 18, he knew there was no such thing as fate. At 30, he found out he was wrong and he was right. Arthur/Eames slash, first-time boyfriends meet up again, Canon AU.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This is a work in progress, but I have about this much more already written. I will try to get this out as soon as possible so you're not waiting! Thanks for reading!

* * *

"What are you doing here?!" Arthur squeaked, helping Eames in the window anyway. His bulky frame squeezed through the opening and he tumbled on the

floor like the world's worst circus clown, springing to his feet with a whispered, "Tada!" that made Arthur want to giggle, but he settled for grinning madly instead.

"Eames," he whispered, pushing at his shoulders, "what are you _doing_ here? You're going to get us both killed."

"I had to see you," Eames whispered back, ducking under Arthur's defenses for a quick peck at his lips. "You didn't think I would just settle for a hug and a handshake at the airport, did you?"

Arthur kissed him back, almost without meaning to, before he could get his lips under control. "You can't, mmmph, be here." Eames kissed him again, grinning, the crooked smile of someone who knew they were going to get away with it. "Mmph! Stop it! We're going to get, mmph, in so much, mmph, Stop it!"

He pushed against Eames' shoulders half-heartedly, as Eames wrapped his strong arms around Arthur's too skinny, too pale body and kissed him for all he was worth.

"God, you taste, mmph, so, mmph, good…"

Eames kissed Arthur's mouth, hands under the thin t-shirt he wore, taking down Arthur's defenses like they were made of tissue and half-hearted attempts at parentally imposed morality.

"What is that?" Arthur asked, dazed when he finally pulled back for breath.

Eames waggled his eyebrows. "Coconut."

Arthur melted, as Eames had known he would, as his heart warmed and he realized perfect happiness could exist on the same plane as perfect sadness.

Eames was flying back to England tomorrow. His parents had never promised how long they were going to stay in the States, and Eames, it turns out, had known it would end someday, but Arthur hadn't. So when Eames had asked him out, blatantly leaning against his locker like it was easy, like it was okay, like it was something people did, Arthur had jumped in with both feet and his whole heart, like the teenaged dumbass he was. And why not? He'd already figured he would be alone forever in his high school of closeted gays and homophobic straights. Finding Eames was already a one in a million chance— a gorgeous guy the universe had to fucking import in order for his dreams to become a reality— and he knew better than to think this was a coincidence.

So he'd said yes, calm and sure in a way he hadn't known he could feel a moment before, and he wasn't stupid enough to flaunt their relationship at the school, but his parents knew, and Eames' parents knew, and they had after school and weekends, and Arthur was in love.

He was head over heels, heart skipping out of his chest, butterflies in his stomach, stupid smile in study hall, in love. Eames was… God, he was everything. Arthur read novels about people in love, smirking to himself, "I know what you're feeling. Shakespeare? Austen? Basically written for us." He was so stupid.

Eames kissed his way down Arthur's neck, his hands roving under Arthur's shirt, and Arthur realized what this was. This was it. This was his last chance to taste that before it was gone.

He stepped back, looked Eames in the eye, and lifted the hem of his shirt. He pulled it off one-handed, the other hand hooking Eames' belt loop to keep him there. Then he tugged at Eames' shirt.

Eames raised his eyebrows, not really in surprise, but in question. "You sure?" he asked, hands already at his clothing.

"Yeah," Arthur answered, knowing he really was sure. "Yeah, I am. I want this."

"Yeah?" Eames said, an excited grin bursting out of him that Arthur couldn't help but mirror. He felt like punching the air. Instead, he turned and thumbed the lock on his bedroom door.

"Yeah. We've got to be quiet though."

"Course," Eames nodded, like that went without question, and maybe it did, but it wouldn't be the last time Arthur said it that night.

They kissed and disrobed clumsily, unhurriedly, excitedly. They'd talked about this, theoretically, hypothetically, hopefully, but they'd never done anything more than mutual masturbation, and Arthur knew it was stupid, but he felt like this one act, this final step, would make it real. It would make it official, something no one could take away from them. Something they couldn't undo. Something that would make it last.

He was right and he was wrong.

It turned out two 17-year-old virgins having clumsy first-time sex in a twin bed wasn't the stuff of pornos, but it was still soft and tender, and achingly sweet. Eames loved him— he whispered it fervently into Arthur's sweaty temple, and Arthur loved him back, with his whole being. And it was good. It was so, so, good; easy orgasms that they felt no shame for, taking the edge off so they could focus on being careful, considerate, patient. Just like they'd talked about wanting when that day came.

They didn't know what they were doing, but it was okay because they didn't know together. They figured it out. It wasn't rocket science, and Arthur was in love. He pushed the morning and the future out of his mind, knowing this was the right decision, taking it with both hands. Eames was too much, too good, too perfect to be anything but preordained.

Eames stroked his body like it was precious, like it wasn't too small or too bony, like Eames knew too that this was meant to be. They cuddled and whispered and smiled at each other, and Arthur's heart ached from being too full. His eyes filled from trying to contain it all, and he was in love. There would never be another person like this.

He was right, and he was wrong.

Because Eames left. The next day, they exchanged chaste hugs and several waves, the reality not quite sinking in, and Arthur and his parents saw them off at the airport, watching Eames lug his backpack and his boarding pass, with Arthur's sweatshirt around his waist. And then he was gone.

It didn't feel real, but it really, really was.

They called and texted at first, but then those got fewer and more infrequent, and suddenly it had been weeks since he'd heard from Eames and realized he had nothing to tell him. And then Arthur, straight-A student, graduated high school and decided he hated fate.

The feeling started to solidify as he sat on a folding chair, its legs sinking into the football field and the PA system scratchy no matter what year it was. The girl next to him was yawning and concentrating on nothing but adjusting her cap and how her hair looked, and the guy behind him was bragging, loudly, about how 'fucked up' he was getting that night. _So this is it,_ he thought. _Actually trying, actually giving a shit about how I did in school, and it leads up to this: sitting in the same chairs, listening to the same speech as the rest of these assholes._

And Arthur should have walked off the damn field right then, tossing his cap in the air behind him as he left, stripping out of his gown and leaving it in a crumpled pile on the 20-yard line. But he didn't. He shook the principal's hand, smiled for his mom, and moved his tassel. Because that was what you did. But sitting in the garage later, a sheet cake wilting with the heat and a basket of cards on the folding table beside him, he decided he was done.

He missed Eames. It was over, and Arthur had finally acknowledged the truth that he would never see him again, and everything from here on out in his life would be different because A) Eames had been his, and B) he didn't get to keep him.

Well, fuck that.

If the universe was spinning at exactly the right pace to put Eames into his life, well, then fuck everything all to hell if the same universe decided it was a "learning experience" or some shit to take him back out. It was a shitty system, and he was damned if he was going to support it. Fuck fate. Fuck it in its stupid ass.

He was done following the path fate had laid out for him. He picked up the acceptance letter his mother had placed proudly on the table in the corner, along with his 2nd-grade tee ball trophy and his taekwondo belts, and folded it carefully. Then he walked out of his own graduation party. Good luck keeping up, fate.

His parents blew a gasket when they found out what he'd done, and they called the recruiting office to see if they could, somehow, veto his decision to enlist. But he was 18, a legal adult in his state, and as the US Army told his parents, in much nicer terms, there was fuck-all they could do to stop him if that's what he wanted.

His family were academics through and through. There was very little history of military service his parents could point to and be proud of, and Arthur knew he could still do that for them, at least. He wasn't throwing anything away, he assured them, and he wasn't going to be killed, and he wasn't going to go away and come back a different person. None of which he knew for sure, but all of which he knew was the right thing to say. At the end of the day, he was still a straight-A student, and he would always actually try and actually give a shit, no matter what he was doing. He just decided he wanted a say in what it was he was doing for a while.

* * *

Boot camp didn't break him, and he managed to put on some wiry muscle even though he still looked like a baby— even in his dress whites. The short hair made his ears stick out more, but he loved everything else. He loved the early morning drills and the late night exercises, and the predictability of routine.

Until he didn't. After boot camp, it was just a job. He did what he was asked to do, and he did it well. He felt confident, ready, calm. And he was done waiting.

He got a day of R&R, had too much to drink at a bar off base and blew a nameless guy in the bathroom. He wanted there to be at least one more, anyone's, to take the sting out of it. Eames was just a person. It was puppy love which had built him up and it was unrealistic to measure every person he'd ever date against this unobtainable standard. Better to suck a dick, let someone suck him, let someone fuck him, and pave the way for someone real. Someone solid and obtainable.

He didn't look for anyone, exactly. He just kept taking whatever left turn happened to appear, selecting whichever option would fuck fate up more. 'Accept the unexpected' was his personal motto, although he only ever said it in his head, and he kept his head down.

"Arthur," called Patrick, flinging a Playboy on his neatly made bunk. "You look like you could use a round with Miss April."

He grinned at Patrick, just for the joy of not letting him get under his skin. "Thanks, I'm all set," he said, tossing it back. "I've got a vivid imagination."

Patrick smirked. "Oh yeah? Whooo, Arthur, my man, I didn't think you had it in you." He rose from his bunk and sauntered over, making sure he had the attention of the rest of the guys in the tent. If Patrick was anything, it was a prima donna, and he loved to be the one calling the shots. Arthur hated him, just a little, but only because he was the antithesis of everything Arthur liked in a person. "Tell us more!" Patrick crowed. "Gather round, boys, it's story time."

Arthur placed the last folded t-shirt in his footlocker and closed the lid. He gave Patrick a once-over, too tight shirt stretched around his biceps, fatigue bottoms slung low on his hips. He leaned close to Patrick's ear, turned so the attentive audience couldn't see the graze of his lips on Patrick's earlobe and could only see the hard swallow Patrick gave.

"I only give private storytimes," Arthur murmured in his ear, his voice a low rumble. "But I'm a very, very good storyteller. Behind the Mess at 2100."

Then Arthur walked away, not looking back, not giving a shit what Patrick would do. Fate could watch him cross the finish line from the starting blocks.

He let Patrick fuck him and refused to think about Eames.

"Oh, my God," Patrick breathed, his belt clanging like an idiot. "I've never… I'm not… oh, God, that feels…"

"Patrick," Arthur snapped, "shut up and fuck me, or I'll find someone who will."

And with that, Patrick came with a whimper, and Arthur rolled his eyes. He grabbed Patrick's hand and showed him the common courtesy expectation of the Reach Around, and after that, it was easier.

He took to strolling past the mess hall after his shift, and sometimes Patrick would be waiting, sometimes Brian, occasionally Jimmy, who would trade messy hand jobs with a "thanks for the assist, bro," like they were two straight guys just helping each other out. Jimmy made Arthur laugh, and they actually ate together from time to time too. For a couple of years, it was alright. He went through a dry spell after the night he strolled past and saw Brian and Patrick kissing, though, something he'd never done with either of them, and that was alright too. They'd be good together. Then there were random guys, men, bars and hotels, and Arthur convinced himself that the time and buffer had made him forget.

The first time he heard about Project Somnacin, spoken of in whispered tones, he wasn't really interested, but if it had been an opportunity that had fallen in his lap, he'd have shaken his head and run the other way. As it was, he stopped hearing about it, and then there was a firearm discharge on base, and then it was all anyone could talk about. Rumors were everywhere, from someone trying to shoot somebody, to someone actually managing to shoot themselves, to government conspiracy theories about the project itself. None of the rumors were good. A sane person would have stayed as far away as they could. So Arthur, naturally, started inquiring.

When he finally got the assignment to the project, it didn't feel like fate. It felt like a hard-won battle and a bloody finish, but he grinned with satisfaction. He called his parents that night.

"Hey, Mom," he said into the handpiece, turning away from the guy in the cubicle next to him crooning something into the phone. He propped his heavy head on his fist and let his eyes droop closed, a warm sense of security settling over him as he listened to her talk about Mrs. Miller next door, who had been _stealing her tulips_ , if you can believe it, just digging them up and moving them to her own yard, and how his cousin Megan was pregnant from that bearded guy at Christmas, and on and on.

He listened and nodded even though she couldn't see him, mmhmm-ing where appropriate and patted himself on the back for how it had turned out. It was definitely not where his senior class had pictured him, and not where he'd pictured himself.

Then, in the middle of his mother's story about their weekend grocery shopping, he smelled it. He perked up in his chair, glancing around, but nothing had changed. The same soldier sitting next to him, the same tone of his mom in his ear, but over everything, a breeze. And the scent of—

" _Coconut_." Arthur stood up, phone pressed hard to his ear, eyebrows drawing together. "Mom."

His mother stopped talking, sounding concerned. "Yes, honey? What is it?"

"Why haven't you asked me why I'm calling?"

"Well, I just figured you'd tell me when you were ready, Arthur."

"What's going on?" Arthur said, frowning heavily and looking at everything. "Who is this?"

It was a stupid question, one he hadn't really meant to say out loud because that was definitely his mother's voice. But as soon as it was out of his mouth, the line went dead, and everything around him froze. The people, the sound, even the air.

"Excellent work, son," came the voice behind him. "Most people don't realize something was wrong until they wake up."

His new CO was strolling in behind him, and Arthur couldn't place a source, but he could still smell it. Sickeningly sweet, cloying, choking him. The room started to spin, his head started to ache, and he fell to his knees, blacking out on the way down.

He blinked awake in the same room where he'd laid down on the military issued cot, IV in his arm and a soldier in a surgical mask still standing over him, jotting things on a clipboard. She nodded at him as he struggled to sit, his CO next to him sitting up too.

"Nice work, soldier," the older man said, his voice cool and clinical.

"Thank you, sir," Arthur said, clearing his too-dry throat, trying to keep his lunch in his stomach. "What did I do?"

That night, Arthur lay on his side and jerked himself slowly, not caring if he came, just squeezing his eyes shut and remembering Eames' hands, his lips, his voice whispering his adoration into Arthur's spine. Because, of course, he hadn't forgotten a thing. To do so would be a betrayal, to his younger self, whom he hated and loved and wanted to be and wanted to bury, and to Eames, who had been so much a part of that younger self, a personification of the good parts of him, and a comfort for the bad. Arthur touched himself and remembered.

Dreaming was hard work, and he was a straight-A soldier too, and he sat through more lecture time than he did dream time, learning what others knew and following orders to the letter.

Eventually, Arthur was the one people were coming to for help, with questions, with possibilities. He kept his head down and made friends with the tech guys who helped with the machine. He learned how to clean it, how to repair it, and eventually, how to build it. He stored it all in his

head, the way they taught him, and then stored it somewhere else, a way they didn't teach him. He taught himself everything there was to know about that machine, until he knew it better than his rifle, than his hands, than his own thoughts. There was no turning back from the path he'd chosen, but he was fairly sure fate had fucked off about three dreamshare COs ago. No one knew where this boat was headed.

Except, apparently, for the general who was defunding the project. Too much risk, too many deaths, and not enough successful application in a timely manner. The official position was that they were "tabling" it, for a more applicable time, but Arthur was done. He had been through too much, dreamt too deep, and pushed too far to table anything. He gritted his teeth and took the next left.

Not re-enlisting made his mother cry happy tears and his father clap him on the back. It made Arthur's stomach hurt and it made him drift around for three months, getting two jobs in IT and hating both of them, and working on rebuilding the machine from memory.

The design was simple and easy to replicate, even with non-military hardware. It was the drug that he couldn't do on his own.

"Hello, this is Dr. Tupper, I'm calling from the Phoenix office to inquire about that batch of Somnacin I ordered last week. Well, can you check again? I can't keep taking time out of my day to contact you. You people should have had this fixed the last time I called. Sweetheart, this is what we call 'unacceptable record keeping'. I want to talk to your supervisor."

Three months as a civilian IT customer service rep had taught Arthur one thing: if you went high enough and yelled loud enough, eventually you'd reach someone who was paid more than it was worth to waste their time, and they wouldn't know enough about their own company to recognize any of the bullshit you were feeding them. Then they'd do what he needed. Life was a bitch like that.

So he had lied to his mother after all; he had come back different. He had learned to play dirty, learned when to be rude to get his way, learned when to shut off his feelings and punch his way through. To be fair, he couldn't promise that it was his time in the military which had made that happen— he might have been that person underneath all along. But Arthur was too old for what-ifs.

The somnacin was how he met Dom, and through him, Mal. They were academics too, and his parents loved them. His mother kept saying how he needed to find a nice girl like Mal, although Jewish, of course, and then she would laugh and tell Arthur to invite them for dinner. He just let it go, not upset about the assumption and not needing to correct her. He had sworn off dick for a while anyway. It hadn't necessarily lead to anything bad, but it hadn't lead to anything good, either, and he didn't like the introspection it inevitably turned up.

Mal was the one who introduced him to Jackson and asked quietly how it was going.

"Slowly," Arthur said, sipping the mug of coffee she'd made him as she tucked her feet underneath her on the couch and swirled the wine in her glass.

"That is good, no? Slow and steady wins the race?"

Arthur tipped his head in acknowledgment and dropped it. He didn't need to explain that the architect's appetite was voracious and they hadn't really been doing a lot of getting to know each other with their clothes on. They'd had one conversation about books which Arthur had to remind himself was not a reason to end a relationship, and if they went out, which they rarely did, it was never to the movies or, God forbid, the theater, but to bars and clubs. It was good. It was fine. It was freeing and did an excellent job of separating love and sex in Arthur's mind. Relationships, even long-term ones, could be casual. Life wasn't a fucking Hallmark movie.

Their breakup was inevitable, and messy, and stupid because Arthur had done a fantastic job of making sure the PASIV plans in his brain were secure. The ones he kept in a box under his bed though…

"No more!" Mal swore, stomping through their trashed office. "We go to the clients, we become untraceable, we do _not. Date. Coworkers._ "

Arthur glared and rolled his eyes, something he hadn't previously been aware he could do at the same time, and he did not point out the fact that Mal had thrown them together or that Dom and Mal had been fucking before he met them.

So Arthur, who'd had to learn how to be rude, was tasked with keeping them untraceable. He was the tech guy, so he should know, right? Because they taught those classes at night school. On the other hand, it was one more left turn the universe couldn't possibly have predicted for him. He started hanging around the wrong sorts, both criminals as well as pasty guys who lived in their basements, telling his parents he had done such a good job on all the IT conferences he'd been going to that the company had him traveling to their various international locations. He'd be back for Passover, don't worry about him. He stuffed down the impulse to tell them he wasn't throwing everything away, that he wouldn't get killed, and that he wouldn't come back different. They hadn't asked anyway.

* * *

" _Do you want some cake?"_

" _I would, darling, but someone has dropped some hair on the top."_

" _What? That's coconut. It's a German chocolate cake; it's supposed to be there."_

" _Ah, it looks lovely, but unfortunately, coconut is an abomination. It tastes like dirty straw."_

" _Eat a lot of dirty straw, do you?"_

" _Come over here and I'll eat you."_

Arthur never slept well in hotels. He scrubbed a hand over his face and slid into his trunks. A few laps in the pool should shut his brain off enough to sleep, and if that didn't work, there was a bartender in the hotel bar who'd looked at his ass earlier. He'd try that next.

On his third lap, he felt like someone was watching him, and he switched to a freestyle stroke and used his breaths to scan the small area around the pool. Florida meant outside pools though, which meant a larger area than just what he could see. He finished his lap and decided to call it a night. Maybe the bartender would be there, maybe he wouldn't, but one thing was certain: he was buying his own shampoo and conditioner in the morning, and he was never going to use the hotel provided amenities again. Fucking coconut-lime scented shit was putting him on edge.

"Hey, thanks, Carl," he said, slipping another $20 to the hotel attendant. "Night swims are the best."

"Yes, sir," Carl replied, not giving a shit and pocketing the money before Arthur could change his mind. He was really only there to keep drunks from falling in and drowning in the middle of the night, what did he care if Arthur swam?

"Arthur?"

Arthur froze, not sure if he should turn around or not. He hadn't given anyone that name, Dom and Mal wouldn't—

"Darling?"

Arthur spun.

Eames was standing there, actually standing in front of him. Khaki cargo shorts and a god-awful orange Hawaiian shirt, wearing a hat even though it was night and carrying a Bahama Mama with a mother fucking umbrella. He looked amazing. Arthur took one look and the door he'd shut on his heart flew wide open. One look and every teenaged idolatry, every unsent text, every night of longing came smashing into him like a freight train.

Eames looked different, and exactly the same. As a kid, Arthur'd always assumed people aged in a way that made them unrecognizable from child to adult, but he'd have known Eames anywhere. He was taller, but not by much, had more wrinkles, but not by much, and he was thick. His whole body was a solid slab which Arthur wanted to press onto the nearest flat surface and straddle.

"Eames?" His voice was a waver, uncertain like he hadn't been in years. With everything in his being, more than he'd ever wanted anything, he wanted Eames to stride across this pool area, take him into his arms, and hold him. "I've never stopped wishing everyone else was you," he'd whisper, and Arthur would say, "I know," and the ache in his chest would finally subside.

"How the hell have you been?" Eames said, grinning widely, coming closer.

"Ah…" Arthur tried to smile back. "Good?"

Eames stuck out his hand. "Bloody hell, what's it been? Ten years?"

"Twelve," Arthur whispered, his hand gripping Eames' and shaking like it was something he didn't have to tell his limbs how to do.

"Pardon?"

Arthur just frowned and shook his head. "Nothing. How have you been? Back in the States, I see. What brings you back here?"

Eames just laughed and held up his drink. "Well, they don't have beaches like this in England!"

Arthur gave an awkward half laugh, trying to remember exactly how far away the beach was from this particular hotel. Then his hands had nothing to do, and his trunks were puddling water on the ground, and this was it. This was the universe's last, cruel fuck you. Eames was going to give him a, "Well, it was good to see you," and he would never hear from him again. He would walk away, ridiculous drink in hand, and Arthur would crumple, a broken pile of parts.

"You look good," Arthur croaked out, too devastated by Eames' appearance to think straight. Eames of old would have leered at him, leaned in close, and made some kind of innuendo before grinning like a loon. Arthur of old would have laughed and kissed his neck.

The Eames in front of him spread his hands and laughed down at his outfit. "Ah, well, when in Rome, am I right? But, seriously, mate! What are you doing here? Have you really migrated away from the frozen tundra you call home?"

"Ah, no," Arthur said, giving Eames an odd look. "Just passing through. I'm attending one of the conferences here." At the hotel. Where he wouldn't be staying if he'd moved here. Arthur mentally retraced his steps and reached for the loaded die he'd started keeping in his pocket at all times. Eames was acting… strangely. Wasn't he? Also… mate? Were they just going to ignore their history, then? Is that what people did when they accidentally ran into their first… everything while prepping a mostly-illegal job?

"Of course, of course," Eames said. "Are you heading back to your room now? Mind if I walk with you? I can't believe it's been so long!"

Arthur tried to shake off his sense of unease. Of course Eames was acting weird. It's not as if there were some kind of protocol for this particular scenario. It was off-putting for him too. Arthur grabbed his things from the beach chair by the pool and draped his towel over his shoulders, holding onto the ends, and let himself smile at Eames— a real smile.

"Sure, why not?"

He saw Eames relax too and turned to lead the way. Eames followed, the same walk, the same easy smile, and Arthur's heart beat harder.

"How long is your conference?" Eames asked conversationally, and Arthur spent a few minutes delving into the backstory he'd created for his parents. It was the first time he'd ever had to use one of them for someone other than his family, but he was immensely grateful he'd created one. He was here with his two co-workers, they were staying a week, he was enjoying the weather and couldn't wait until they had a break so he could read a book in a hammock properly.

Eames finished his drink and grinned at him, and the sight of those wonky teeth made Arthur's fists clench. Eames asked him question after question— had he tried this restaurant yet, had he bought any kitschy souvenirs for anyone, was he learning anything interesting at the conference? Before Arthur knew it, they were at his hotel room door.

Arthur withdrew his room card, turning it over in his hands. "This is me," he said, indicating his door.

Eames' face softened, and he hummed as he looked at the room number like he was making a mental note. Arthur's stomach flipped and Eames took a step closer. "Darling," he said, his voice warm as he took Arthur's hand. He squeezed Arthur's upper arm with the other hand, a tingle of warmth spreading through Arthur's body. "It was so good to see you."

For a moment, Eames was just as he remembered. That intense gaze, the quirk of those lips, his thumb sweeping across Arthur's knuckles— Arthur was 17 again and Eames was the whole world.

Then Eames stepped back. "We should meet up again!" he said. "Maybe get a drink, catch up." His smile was wide but felt different somehow, and Arthur struggled to switch gears.

"Yeah," he said, nodding. "Yeah, we should do that. It's been a long time."

"Too long." Eames gave him a cheeky wave. "Cheers, darling."

Arthur watched him walk away, admiring the view, then let himself into his hotel room. For just a moment, for just one damn second, he allowed himself to stand there, back pressed against the door, a stupid smile on his face, and breathe. Eames, his Eames, had stood a foot away from him seconds earlier and asked him to have drinks.

Maybe it wasn't about fate. Maybe it wasn't about the choices he'd made. He didn't know anymore. What he did know was that he needed to take a shower, and all of a sudden, the thought of the hotel-provided shampoo wasn't turning his stomach. In fact, he had a pretty good idea what he could use it for that might even help him sleep. It had been a long time since he'd rubbed one out to thoughts of coconut and Eames. Since he'd let himself think about it so frankly, anyway. It seemed fitting, somehow, a nod to all those nights he and Eames had "watched a movie", winding each other up, before going to their respective homes and beds.

Arthur rolled his eyes at himself, still grinning, and shucked his trunks, placing them in the sink while he showered. He turned on the shower, letting steam fill the room, and he reached for his phone to check the time. Except he'd put his phone in the pocket of his trunks. And his trunks were sitting in a pile in the sink.

Arthur felt the pockets anyway as if he could have somehow missed an Otterbox in the thin material. Then, as he looked at his hands, he noticed the tan line on his wrist. His watch was missing too.

"Shit."


	2. Chapter 2

Dom and Mal were light sleepers, a byproduct of their job, and Arthur was able to rouse them with a knock on their door. He was already packed, and a single spoken sentence was enough to spur them into action. He helped them toss their belongings into bags and escape down the back staircase, ditching the rental car in the parking lot and taking a cab to the warehouse where they'd staged the job.

Everything was as they'd left it, the files of information he'd printed still untouched. He started stacking documents into a pile and tossing them into a box, moving efficiently through the space.

"Wait," Dom said, "just wait a second. What exactly happened? Isn't there any way we can save this job? Arthur," he barked when Arthur didn't stop moving, "we need this one. What is going on?"

Arthur gritted his teeth and stopped. Dom wasn't going to move until he'd wrenched the whole stupid story out of Arthur's past, and Mal would follow his lead.

"There was a guy casing me at the hotel," Arthur said carefully, crossing his arms. "I'd rather be safe than sorry."

The skin around Dom's eyes tightened and he made a "go on" motion with his hand.

Arthur breathed out through his nose. He didn't owe Dom anything, he reminded himself.

"I went for a swim. He approached me. We started talking as I walked back to my room," Arthur said, his sentences clipped. "Then he left and I noticed my watch and my phone were missing."

Dom didn't move. Mal's eyes flitted between them.

"That's it?" Dom asked. "How do you know it wasn't just a robbery?"

"I had a lot of information on that phone," Arthur gritted out. "If he knows how to get into it, the whole job could be compromised."

Dom's hands curled into fists. "God damn it, Arthur. I thought you were on top of the technical stuff."

Arthur scowled. "That's what I'm trying to do. You asked me to keep us untraceable, that's what I'm trying to do here," he said, indicating the box at his feet. "Normally it would be hard to track us, and I didn't give him any information about the job, but…"

Arthur trailed off and Dom glared. "But what, Arthur? Did you sleep with him?"

Arthur flinched. "Not… exactly."

Dom looked confused, then annoyed. "Look, I'm not asking for your definition of 'sex' here. You know what I want to know. What exactly does your pillow talk consist of?"

Arthur scowled and counted off on his fingers. "He knows where I'm from. He knows I'm single and I travel frequently for business. He knows my real name. He knows how long I'll be in town, when I arrived, which restaurants I've eaten at since I've been here, and which room I was in. I mean, if _I_ had that information about someone, I'd be able—"

"He knows your real name?" Mal interrupted. "You gave a stranger your real name?"

"I…" Arthur looked between them again. "Not… exactly."

Dom threw his hands up and walked a few feet away, fuming. Mal just watched Arthur, her soft brown eyes concerned for him.

"He's my ex," Arthur finally admitted. "My first boyfriend, actually. From back home."

"And he stole your _watch_?" Dom accused. "Jesus, Arthur, what did you do to the guy?"

Arthur did nothing, said nothing, tried to kick the door in his chest closed again. But Mal's eyes saw anyway.

"Dom," she said quietly, "let's just move our setup for tonight. We can't get a new work location until the morning, but we still have the backup card, yes?"

"That's for emergencies, and I don't think Arthur's sex life getting _yet another_ job ruined for us qualifies as—"

"Dom," she said again, her voice calm and lilting, "we cannot sleep here. We will just find somewhere for the night, and see what we can salvage tomorrow. Arthur is right: better safe than sorry."

* * *

Arthur kept an ear on the police radio and heard the warehouse they'd been holed up in was reported broken into three days later. They'd managed to wrap the job early, tossing out some of Dom's more creative ideas and just blowing things up instead, the way Arthur had suggested from day one, so he didn't feel any pressing need to tell Dom about the break-in.

Arthur took the next two days off, but he couldn't get Eames' actions out of his head. It was the watch. He couldn't figure out why Eames had taken it. His phone, sure. It was protected the best way he knew how, although he'd been around the block enough times at this point to realize he was outmatched by at least three different hackers who were still in middle school, so he hadn't held out a ton of hope it would remain unaccessed. But the watch...

It wasn't anything special. Waterproof, comfortable band, medium price-range, but not something you'd steal. That meant it had to be personal. It wasn't a family heirloom, and there wasn't even anything in Arthur and Eames' past that had anything to do with watches. Not even wrists, that he could think of.

It finally came to him as he was getting ready to leave one morning. and searching his end table for his car keys. As his fingers finally closed around them, Arthur realized that if only one or the other of the things had been missing, he'd have simply thought he lost it. When he recognized it was gone, he'd have retraced his steps, maybe gone back to the pool or called the front desk to see if anyone had turned it in. But with both of them gone, he'd known immediately that they'd been taken. And when he knew that, Arthur did the stupidest but also the most logical thing, which was run.

The three of them had headed straight for the PASIV and the research, leading anyone following him right to the very thing he'd been trying to protect. Arthur cussed himself out, clenching his jaw and vowing not to fuck up like that again. He hated that learning the things he knew were precipitated by mistakes like this. It infuriated him that Eames could have predicted he'd react that way, after 12 years of trying specifically to be unpredictable.

But mistake or not, Eames _hadn't_ followed him to the warehouse. Why? The warehouse had been hit, so someone had been chasing them. But if that someone had been Eames, why had it taken him three days? Even if it took three days to break into his phone, which Arthur knew a 14-year-old who could have done it in three hours, Eames wouldn't have needed to. He just had to watch Arthur flail around like a fish out of water and flop into the net all by himself.

Unless...

Unless Eames hadn't been trying to make him run so he could follow, but so that Arthur could get out. Maybe Eames had been trying to warn him. It was outlandish and far-fetched, but it was the only explanation Arthur could come up with that made any kind of sense.

He called Dom.

"The warehouse was _what_?" Dom squawked loud enough that Arthur pulled his new phone away from his ear. "By who?"

"Whom, and I don't know," Arthur said. "I've got a guess as to what Eames had to do with it though."

"Who the hell is Eames? Jesus, is he that guy? Why is it always your love life that is making us run halfway around the country and blow things up? What the hell is going on, Arthur?"

"My love life is not the problem, and we blew things up in a dream. Are you done? Can I go on?" Dom was silent for a few beats and Arthur continued before he could get fired. "I think he was trying to warn me they were after the PASIV."

There was another pause before Dom asked tightly, "How do you know that?"

"I don't know for sure," Arthur agreed, "but the important thing is that we know someone is after the PASIV."

"Well, of _course_ someone—"

Arthur could hear Dom taking deep breaths, then a crackle as he handed off the phone and Mal's voice came on the line.

"Arthur? What is it _mon cher_?"

Arthur refocused. "Someone is actively tracking our jobs to try and steal a PASIV. Because we moved shop, they didn't get one. Any idea who that might be? Or how we can find out?"

There was a beat, and then, "Yes, I may be able to find out. But why?"

"I was thinking we contact them and find out if we can sell them one. It'll get them off our backs and if we charge them enough, maybe we can skip that shitty job in Sri Lanka."

Mal didn't say anything for a moment and then said, "You have extra ones?"

Her voice was light, too casual, and Arthur would forever hate himself for this conversation later, but at the moment all he could think of was how to fix the problem in front of him. "Yeah, I mean, I can build one."

"Does anyone else know you can build a PASIV?"

"Jackson, I suppose. And whoever he told."

She just hummed and told him she would talk to Dom, and Arthur took a deep breath and believed her when she said it would be alright.

The next day, Dom called him.

"You are _not_ building them a PASIV," he chastised, as if Arthur were a child. "We don't need any more competition than we already have, and not everyone has my background to be able to pul—"

" _Your_ background?"

"...Our background, I meant. Look, I just mean that this isn't a good time to make the playing field even. We need to keep as many of the balls in our court as we can, and if we—"

"When is it ever going to be a good time to keep the field even? That's not what this is about, and God knows it would be nice to have another team to spread out the jobs we don't want. Yes, it's competition, but the more this gets out, and it _will_ , the more—"

"Mal's pregnant."

Arthur broke off and the answering silence ringing through his hotel room pressed in on him.

"She just found out, we haven't told her parents yet, and she's," Dom sighed and Arthur could picture him pushing his hand through his hair, "she's scared. We weren't exactly expecting…"

Dom trailed off and Arthur could only picture the end of everything he'd known. How was that for confounding fate? "Well, you are now," he finally said.

Dom croaked a laugh that. "Yeah."

He sounded lost, and Arthur got a grip. "Hey, congratulations, man. That's really exciting."

"Yeah? I mean, yeah, thanks. You're the first person I've told."

Arthur didn't know what to do with that information. He didn't have siblings, hadn't really been around people who were babies or who owned babies, and he wasn't sure what he was supposed to say.

"Well, um," he tried. Maybe Dom would prefer getting back to something he was used to? Arthur knew he would. "About the PASIV— maybe you're right. Maybe it's not a good time right now."

"Right," Dom said, steadier. "Yeah, exactly. Just, who needs the competition, right?"

"Right," Arthur confirmed, nodding even though Dom couldn't see him. "Ah, just... maybe something to think about. If Eames hadn't tipped me off, they'd have gotten ours. So I might build a backup just in case."

"Yeah, that's a good idea, Arthur. And we can keep the other one, so they're not in the same place. Spread out the liability a bit."

"Yes, good," Arthur said, shoving the pieces of PASIV he'd already started building into a pile. "Also, we kind of owe Eames one. Not in an obvious way, but just, you know. If it comes up."

"I'll keep that in mind," Dom said drily, like he knew exactly what Arthur was asking, and Arthur felt his spine stiffen. "But hey," Dom said, softer, "thanks. For, you know. Being the one I could tell."

"You're... welcome."

The call ended and Arthur found himself looking at his phone like it was a stranger. He didn't know anything about babies.

When the second PASIV was together, he took it over to Dom and Mal's to test it.

"Hello," he said, not sure if he should bring up her... pregnant-ness.

"Arthur, my dearest, I'm so glad you're here! Come, look at these things I bought for the baby!"

Arthur found himself knee-deep in a world of organic everything, and Mal looked too happy for words. Dom had said she was scared, and if Arthur was any kind of judge, she should be. But the PASIV he had carefully fashioned to fit into an old briefcase of his, was clutched in her hand and it was saying she wasn't planning on changing her lifestyle. And so Arthur listened and nodded and integrated words into his lexicon like "layette" and "lovey". Then he steered the conversation back to what he was good at.

"I need another person to do the test run. Dom?"

Dom and Mal looked at each other. "Yeah, probably a good idea," Dom said, taking the offered IV. "Better safe than sorry, right Arthur?"

Dom smiled and Mal's mouth twisted, but Arthur was dead serious when he nodded back. "You don't want to be sorry on this one."

"No," Dom said, and to Arthur's surprise, Mal's face untwisted and she hugged him.

"Thank you," she said into his sweater vest, sounding too close to weeping for comfort. "You are right. Thank you for keeping us safe. All of us."

She pulled back with a watery smile and a hand on her stomach, and Arthur only squirmed a little.

"Right."

The PASIV worked perfectly, the two minutes of dream time enough for Dom to poke at the beachside cabana he'd built and not enough time to wonder about the scent of coconuts. Ever since the pool, any dream Arthur built seemed permeated, which he'd thought he'd gotten a handle on in the Army, but apparently not. He gritted his teeth as Dom built an Eiffel Tower on the shore and the smell intensified.

"It won't be long," Dom promised. "She'll be back to work as soon as the baby's born."

Arthur nodded. "We can take two-man jobs until then. She can help me with research topside. I can help you with the builds."

Dom just nodded, his smile tight, and then they blinked awake in Mal and Dom's family room. Arthur prided himself on his quick and efficient dreams, but now he just wanted to go back to his hotel room and shower off the scent of coconut.

With a baby on the way and funds running low, they took the shitty Sri Lanka job, which was a terrible idea and Arthur told them both that, loudly, and was overruled by things like,"diversify our portfolio," and "future market share," and "before Mal can't fly anymore."

Even if the job was doomed, at least the location was beautiful, Arthur thought, leaning back in the cafe chair and sipping his espresso. Arthur had never been to Sri Lanka, and indulging in a day of sightseeing, and actually buying a souvenir for his mother (because Eames had made him feel like shit for not getting her one from Florida) was more peaceful than he'd expected.

It had taken two days for Dom and Mal to nail down the deal, which had apparently been agreed to without knowing any specifics, and almost ended with Dom stomping about of the room and muttering about "motherfucking _diamonds_ ". Eventually, though, he was able to strike a deal with the head of the manufacturing corporation, and they were set to extract the location of a family-owned diamond mine. Their mark was the aging owner, currently bedridden and shut-in.

"It's not going to work," Arthur argued. "He's not going to leave the house, and that family secret has been ingrained into his cell matter. We're not going to be able to get to him, and if we _do_ , he might be militarized. I found copies of— "

"That's why you do what you do," Dom interrupted, slapping a folder into Arthur's chest, "and I do what I do."

He walked away and Arthur glared. When he looked to Mal for help, she was engrossed in her computer screen with a crease between her eyes and hadn't heard a word. Arthur frowned and made sure they had tickets off the island.

They'd been paid for two weeks, although Arthur was betting it would fall through in ten days. He pulled three 20-hour days in a row trying to find a way to get to the mark, and then Arthur told Dom, in no uncertain terms, that he was taking the rest of the afternoon off.

"You're what?"

Mal just looked at him, her hand on her barely noticeable bump.

"I'm going sightseeing."

"We've got a job to do, Arthur."

"Yeah, and as soon as you figure out how you're going to pull it off, I'm ready to hear it. Until then, I'm going to go see an elephant and then I'm going to sit on a beach. I'm not going to kill myself if you don't have a plan in place."

Dom, fuming, apparently couldn't come up with a retort until Arthur was almost out the door.

"Try keeping your pants on. We can't afford any screw-ups."

Arthur, the mature 30-year-old that he was, decided that slamming the door and storming off was better than the list of damaging and hurtful things he could have said in return. So the elephants were amazing, and the walking tour was beautiful, but he didn't get a chance to let his chest uncoil until he had a coffee in hand, a newspaper in front of him, and blessed, blessed silence.

"Sir? How is everything this morning?"

Arthur spared a glance at the over-eager waiter who was making a lot of eye contact.

"Fine."

"Ah, a fellow American!" the waiter continued with a grin. He was young, probably taking a gap year to see the sights, and Arthur nodded once.

"Yes."

"Well, it's good to hear a familiar voice," he laughed, cocking a hip and looking like he was going to stay a while. "Are you here for business or pleasure?" He gave Arthur an appreciative once-over and Arthur was not at all thinking about Dom's warning when he didn't return the glance.

"Actually," Arthur said distantly, "I will have another one of these, now that you mention it. Thank you so much." He gave an impersonal, but polite smile.

The waiter only looked stung for a second before straightening and murmuring, "Right away, sir," and hurrying off. Arthur gritted his teeth and returned to his paper and his silence.

"Is there anything else I can get you, sir?"

Arthur didn't look up this time. "Just the coffee is fine."

"Are you sure?"

Annoyed, Arthur frowned over the top of the paper and felt his mouth drop at the sight in front of him.

Eames pulled out a chair and sat down, grinning.

"Hello, darling."

Except he said it in an American accent. It was jarring and odd, and Arthur hated it. He closed his mouth and raised an eyebrow instead. Arthur fluffed his paper. "Have a seat, why don't you?"

"Don't mind if I do."

The Eames in front of him was a different person, yet again. It wasn't just the accent. He was dressed in a slouchy blazer and trousers, wide splayed collar showing off his thick neck— a far cry from the gauche tourist he'd been at the pool. Arthur tried to focus on the words in front of him and appear unaffected.

"How did you find me?"

"You're not very creative with your aliases, Arthur."

Arthur clenched his jaw, but Eames' accent was back so he didn't say anything, relieved to hear the familiar drawl wash over him.

"I'd heard about this job through the grapevine—"

"There's a grapevine?"

"— but I thought to myself, no, Arthur's far too practical to take something like that. Seems you've changed, darling."

" _I've_ …!"

Arthur gaped at him, but obviously, the man by the pool hadn't been Eames. The man sitting next to him now might not be Eames either, but Arthur was startled to realize he was okay with that. At least now he knew that if he wanted to know Eames again, really still know him, it wouldn't be as easy as walking Eames back to his hotel room. That thought made him want to grin. Eames, the one he'd loved, had been interesting and complex. Arthur was glad at least that hadn't changed.

 _"I got you a Sno Ball."_

 _"A what now?"_

 _"A Sno Ball. They're good."_

 _"It definitely sounds like something I would like. I like snow, I love balls… but I just don't believe it's possible I would enjoy those, darling. There's dandruff all over them."_

 _"Oh, no, that's coconut. Don't you like coconut? No, wait. You_ _hate_ _coconut. Damn, I knew there was something about coconut."_

 _"Uh huh. What if I trade you? I'll give you my hairy balls for your chocolate bar."_

Arthur had always liked coconut, but he liked teasing Eames about it more. Every time he saw it, all he could think about was Eames and how he would react to whatever food it had disgraced, how even coconut scented things offended his sensibilities. Arthur bought coconut everything and gifted them to Eames, left them in his dresser drawers, and let him "borrow" them. It became so common that even his parents would bring him things they found "for Eames" and Arthur would cackle.

Eames had always been a good sport, and Arthur had never been cruel because he knew Eames really, honestly didn't like coconut. So the fact that Eames had made himself coconut scented on their last night together was a form of 'I love you' Arthur never thought he'd hear. It was _I love you more than the things I don't like. I love you enough to endure them because you like them. I love you._

He chanced a glance at Eames, who had acquired a toothpick and was rolling it around his mouth as he watched Arthur. He smirked at Arthur and Arthur could feel himself blush. He jerked his gaze back to his newspaper and kept his face neutral.

"Your espresso, sir." The waiter appeared at his elbow, a cool and unimpressed look toward Eames, who turned his smirk on him.

When the waiter set down the cup, Eames leaned close to Arthur.

"Sweetheart, you got me one too? You're the best."

His voice was low and warm, a fond crinkle in his eyes, and Arthur knew it was a mask, but he was still transported. He was in his childhood bedroom, warm summer air breathing through his curtains and Eames breathing into his mouth. Then he blinked. And Arthur turned on his thousand-watt smile, dimples and all.

"Sure I did, babe. Anything for you."

Eames' smile faltered, and in that instant, Arthur felt his heart thrill. Yes, Eames was different. Arthur was different too. But Arthur could still tease him. And Eames' answering grin was wider and truer, even as he leaned closer and put his wide, warm palm on Arthur's knee.

The waiter finally got the message and left them alone, and Arthur folded his paper and then reached to grab Eames' hand. He kept smiling as he tightened his grip to the point where Eames winced. "What are you doing here, Eames?"

Eames gave him an adoring look despite Arthur crushing his fingers together and murmured, "Same as last time, of course."

Arthur froze and dropped Eames' hand, and Eames sat back, flexing his fingers unobtrusively under the table. Eames scanned the area, sipping the espresso Arthur had ordered and looking for all the world like he could have been there simply to enjoy the coffee and the foot traffic.

"Who?" Arthur clipped, done smiling.

Eames shook his head, setting down the cup. "Doesn't matter. How long will you be?"

Arthur frowned but decided to answer honestly. "I give it another week before it falls apart."

Eames scanned the area again, a casual, relaxed air as he said, "See if you can wrap it up sooner, hmm? I'm not the Second Coming."

Arthur snorted softly.

Eames' eyes swung to look at him, amused and mischievous. He moved as if to rise, and Arthur felt a stab of panic he hadn't anticipated at the thought that Eames would walk out and he would never see him again. He had no way to contact him, no idea if Eames _wanted_ to be contacted.

"Arthur."

Arthur held back a shiver, but only just. His name rolled off Eames' tongue, warm and sweet and full of memories. Eames curled himself into Arthur's space again, far too close and not close enough.

"You'll call me if you need someone who's good with his hands, yeah?"

Arthur vaguely registered the weight dropping into his pocket, but all he could see were Eames' eyes. Icy blue-gray with a few more wrinkles at the corners than he remembered, but smiling at him just the same.

Arthur couldn't think of a thing to say.

Eames stood with a cheeky wink and Arthur watched him walk away, pulling a map out of his pocket as he walked and stopping an elderly woman on the street to ask for directions in his unsettling brassy American accent.

Arthur had wiped his mouth before he remembered to check his pocket, but sure enough, his hand closed around the familiar shape of his phone.


	3. Chapter 3

Arthur walked back into Mal and Dom's hotel room in a strange cloud of calm, replaying the meeting with Eames in his head.

"Guys?"

Dom and Mal looked up from where they were working, and Arthur raised his head to meet their eyes.

"I think we should pull the plug on this job."

The other two looked at each other, having a whole conversation with a look, and Dom rose. "Why? You never bail on a job, not even with that mess with Jackson. You were ready to go right to the—"

"Oh, will you stop bringing that up?" Arthur exploded. "I'm sorry, alright? I fucked up. I'm trying to make it up to you."

"By cutting and running? We just made a breakthrough while you were "sightseeing", in case you care, and I think we could really—"

"Eames is here."

Now Mal was on her feet. "What? Here? In Sri Lanka?"

Arthur nodded and Dom yelled, "How in the hell did he find us? Did you tell him where we were going?"

Arthur glared. "Of course not!"

"Well, then what the hell is he doing here?"

"When I asked him that," Arthur said pointedly, "he said, 'Same as before.' So I assume that means whoever's hired him is still after the PASIV. And instead of stealing it, Eames is trying to warn me."

Dom paced, thinking, and Arthur put his hands on his hips, trying not to scream.

"So we've got some time," Dom said, and Arthur wanted to beat him.

He gritted his teeth instead. "I told Eames we needed at least ten days. He said he won't be able to hold them off that long and—"

"Ten days should be plenty, no?" Mal asked, her soft voice cutting through the tension. "With the new plan?"

"What plan?"

Dom turned to look at him, assessing, and then he said, "I had an idea." He paced the floor, talking with his hands. "You said that the mark might be militarized, right?"

Arthur nodded.

"I got the idea because the guy who taught me about militarization, Mr. Charles, took me into a dream and started to teach me about militarization. Except I didn't know I was in a dream. When he stopped and told me it was a dream, all of a sudden I could see all the things that were strange, which I hadn't noticed before. His point was that I couldn't trust anything he'd told me since it had all been a dream, but what I realized was that in that moment, _he_ was the only thing I could trust."

"That's…" Arthur frowned, "actually terrifying."

"Yes!" Dom exclaimed coming over to him. "That's the point! If the mark is militarized and we make his dreaming mind aware he's dreaming, he'll only be able to trust us and eventually lead us right to what we want."

Arthur shifted, the rationalization a little too close to home with his dealings with Eames. He tried to remember if he'd checked for a tail before he walked back here.

Mal spoke up. "It could work, Arthur. We wouldn't need as long, maybe five minutes topside. I could distract his nurse," she stroked her belly, "and you and Dom could go under."

If she'd been imploring instead of steady, Arthur might not have agreed. But she was so calm, so sure. Arthur nodded.

"Fine. Thursday the rest of the house will be out, his nurse will be the only one there. You two," he said, pointing, "can play act. I'm just there to work."

Dom grinned like a little boy and even Mal smiled, smug and French. "Thursday it is, then."

Arthur sat at the computer. "What do you need from me?"

* * *

It was a disaster. Arthur sat up from the bed and vomited into the trash can nearby. He was careful to keep the mess contained, grabbing the liner and wrapping it up almost before he was finished.

"Dom," he croaked. "We've got to go."

The answering groan was muffled and he turned to see Dom hanging his head between his knees looking distinctly green.

"Shit. Do not puke on the carpet."

A string of worried French hit him. "What has happened?" Mal asked.

"It didn't work. We have to go. Now."

Mal frowned but helped Dom remove his IV and Arthur shoved the lines into the case without his usual care, trying to wipe down fingerprints while he could still stand. Mal dragged Dom to standing and hauled him out of the room.

"Where's the nurse?" Arthur asked, staggering behind them.

"Dealt with," came the familiar British accent, and Arthur stumbled into unfamiliar arms, so different from what he remembered.

Eames took his weight easily and Arthur didn't care why he was there, only that he was helping.

"This way," Eames clipped, and Arthur followed.

When they hit the air outside, Arthur felt his head clear and he started noticing things. Eames was tense, looking everywhere at once. Mal was holding on to Dom, but she also had a hand on the gun in Dom's shoulder holster. And they weren't heading toward their hotel.

"Eames, what…?"

"I need you to trust me, Arthur. Ten minutes and I'll explain everything. Okay?"

He wasn't looking at Arthur, just barreling ahead and Arthur felt small beside him. It wasn't a feeling he was used to.

"Arthur," Mal hissed. "Who is this? What is going on?"

"I don't…"

"Arthur." Eames looked at him, one strong arm still wrapped firmly around him, dragging him on. "Ten minutes. Please, darling."

Arthur's helpless glance at Mal was met with grim understanding, but she just pursed her lips and didn't let go of Dom's gun.

That's how Arthur found himself standing in a room of the shittiest roach motel he'd ever laid eyes on, a bag of his own vomit in one hand and the PASIV in the other. Arthur looked dubiously at the two double beds as Mal steered Dom towards the room's only chair. Dom was there mere seconds before he sprang up and made a beeline for the bathroom, Mal clucking after him.

"Eames?" Arthur asked. "What the hell is going on? How did you know where we were? And where are we now?

Eames turned from where he'd been peering out the corner of the curtain he'd twitched back. "Alright, it's like this. I have been tailing you for a few months because I was supposed to steal a PASIV."

Arthur, who had suspected but had stupidly hoped he was wrong, glared. "What?"

"I didn't know it was you at the time!" Eames insisted. "Honestly, Arthur, when I saw you in Florida I was—"

"You were going to steal it from _some_ one, though. One of my friends. But then, what? You felt a twinge of nostalgia and decided to grow a conscience?"

Eames' lips thinned. "I have been trying to earn a permanent spot on a dreamshare team for _years,_ and I did what—"

" _You_ were the one?" Mal's face in the bathroom doorway was thunderous, a black scowl, and Arthur could see Dom's pasty one behind hers. "The one who has been chasing us, _threatening_ us…!"

"Hey," Arthur said, frowning at her, "he hasn't threatened—"

"You have no honor," Mal spat. Then she started in on him in French, and from the way Eames flinched, he had to have understood at least some of it.

"Mal, be reasonable, he did try to warn me, and we—"

"Did he?" Mal rounded on Arthur. "Are you _certain_ he was warning you? Because it seems to me that he is closer to his goal than he has ever been." She looked pointedly at the case clutched in Arthur's hand.

Eames and Arthur both looked at the case, and Eames took a step back. "Hey, no, Arthur," he said, raising his hands, but Mal didn't let him continue.

"You have put my family in danger, Mr. Eames. You are not welcome here."

Her words landed like a viper attack, and Eames drew back.

"Alright," Eames said, curling his fingers and letting his hands drop. His face was a cool mask. "I can see how you might think that. I'll go. I snagged a few provisions for a quick getaway, so I'll leave them outside the door, and then you'll never see me again." He brushed past Arthur to head to the door.

"No, wait," Arthur started himself out of his stupor. "Just... wait." He shoved the bag and the PASIV at Mal, barely noticing her grimace and followed Eames into the hallway. When the door was shut safely behind him, he turned to Eames.

"What is going on? Seriously, Eames. I don't know what to believe right now."

The truth was that Arthur knew what he should believe and he knew what he did believe, and they weren't matching up. Arthur desperately wanted Eames to fix that for him.

Eames, however, looked a little rattled. "Everything I told you is the bloody truth, Arthur, and I want to explain." He raked a hand through his hair and turned to face Arthur fully. "I..." His hand made an awkward motion, and Arthur wondered if Eames had been intending to touch him, but Eames only crossed his arms. "But there's nothing I can say right now that you'll believe, is there." His sigh was a challenge and a resignation at the same time.

Arthur tried to distance himself, think about it objectively, dispassionately, the way Dom would expect him to in any other situation.

Eames was a thief; he'd said so himself. And if he was still interested in stealing a PASIV, he wouldn't have a very easy time of it now that he'd admitted it to Arthur. But maybe that was the point. Maybe it was reverse psychology, or reverse reverse psychology, or...

Or maybe Eames was telling the truth.

Arthur knew Eames. Not the man in front of him, obviously. Arthur wanted to think he knew the 'real' Eames though, the one he'd been before he'd built up the obvious layers between them. The one Eames still was underneath them all. If Arthur was being honest with himself, it was unrealistic— Arthur was a different person than he'd been at 17, even though some days he still felt 17 on the inside. He could suppose no differently for Eames.

"I think I don't know what to believe," Arthur said again, hesitantly, and Eames only nodded, looking away.

"I'll be back," Eames said, "I'll bring you some things. You think about it, yeah? Let me know what I can do to convince you."

"It's not me you have to convince," Arthur said. "It's Dom."

Eames snorted. "You think I care what that bloody ponce thinks?"

Arthur's lips twitched. "Yes. You want to be on a dreamshare team, you didn't score a PASIV, and Dom is the head of _this_ particular team. So yeah, I do."

Eames had the sense to look abashed. "Yeah, alright, that might have crossed my mind. Probably not a good start to the whole 'trust' thing, now was it?" He chuckled. "I've been a liar for a long time, Arthur. 'S as natural as breathing to me. But I would like it if you'd trust me again."

Arthur just raised his eyebrows and put his hands on his hips and Eames sucked in a lip and nodded once.

"Right. I'm off."

He turned, but after a beat looked back. "You know, Arthur... I'd always pictured meeting you again going much differently."

And Arthur, too stunned to know what to think, watched him walk away.

45 minutes later, there was a knock on the room of the hotel, and Arthur's gun was in his hand. Even when he checked the peephole and opened the door to Eames, he frowned. "What do you want, Eames?"

"'Nothing," Eames frowned back, "just bringing the stuff like I said I would," which was when Arthur noticed what he was carrying.

"That's," Arthur said, backing up in surprise and Eames stepped into the room. "That's my suitcase."

"And mine," Mal said, reaching for the one Eames was handing her.

Eames nodded. "Dom's is still downstairs, I'll go grab it."

"But how did you...?" Arthur picked his case up. "You know what? I don't want to know."

Eames grinned at him and Arthur could feel himself smirking back, even as Eames left again. Arthur closed the door behind him and could feel himself settle. It was always like that once he'd made a decision. He moved smoothly, stripping the comforters off both beds and setting his suitcase on the one closest to the door. He unzipped it to find all of his belongings stacked inside, including the ones he'd stowed in the dresser, and his watch laid neatly on top. Arthur grinned. There was the Eames he knew.

He was still grinning when he heard the knock on the door.

"Eames, I'm sorry, I should—"

As soon as Arthur opened the door, Eames plowed into him. Every square inch of muscle hit Arthur square in the chest and Arthur toppled backward. Training kicked in about halfway down and Arthur tried to twist to protect his spine, but he still landed badly. And then Eames landed on top of him.

"What the—"

Arthur broke off at the look on Eames' face, terror and sorrow as he scrambled off Arthur. "I'm sorry," he whispered frantically. "This wasn't, I—"

"Well, well, well, my little Arthur. You look so surprised to see me."

The tall, dark-haired man in the doorway was pointing a gun at Arthur, a cold smile that didn't reach his eyes. He closed the door quietly behind him.

"Sergio!" Dom yelled, springing to his feet, more life in his cheeks than he'd had all morning. "You piece of—"

"Shut up," Sergio clipped, and Dom clamped his mouth closed again, glaring for all he was worth. "We're not going to draw this out. Hand it over, and I'll be on my way."

"I'm not giving you anything," Arthur spat at him.

"Sergio, love, let's talk about this," Eames said, crouched on the carpet, hands splayed.

"Oh, I wasn't talking to either of you," Sergio drawled. He strolled into the room, the calm confidence of a small man with a big gun. With a cruel sneer, he pressed the gun in his hand to the soft mound of Mal's belly. "I was talking to Dominic."

Arthur couldn't describe the emotions crossing Dom's face as he put his hands up, far away from the gun in his holster.

"Okay," he said quickly, "okay, Sergio. Let's just… there's no need for that. Okay?"

"Fine with me," Sergio said with a shrug. "So hand it over."

Arthur, ignoring the soreness in his body from the fall, rose to his knees. "He doesn't have it." He put his hands up as Sergio looked at him, but Sergio didn't move the gun from Mal's stomach, even though silent tears were streaming down her cheeks. "I do," Arthur said.

Sergio regarded him with a squint. "No tricks, Arthur. I know it's here."

Arthur nodded, then pointed to the pile of blankets at the foot of the bed.

"Arthur…" Mal's pleading voice stopped them all. "Just give it to him. Please."

Arthur frowned, then nodded and rose to his feet, hands still raised. He retrieved the PASIV and handed it over, and Sergio tucked it under his arm so he could keep his gun trained on them. He opened the door with a grin.

"It has been a genuine pleasure. Eames, wonderful to work with you, as always. Couldn't have done it without you. But, as you can see, I did end up having to do it without you, so you can go ahead and consider this our final interaction."

"You bloody prat. I wouldn't—"

"Ah, ah, ah," Sergio warned, waving his gun. "I implore you, _love_. Think of the children." He grinned again and Arthur felt a red surge of hate he hadn't realized he could create aimed at the smarmy man. Eames' lips were a hard line and he looked away.

Sergio smiled the whole time as he let the door close. As soon as it clicked shut, Arthur moved to engage the lock while Dom collected the sobbing Mal in his arms. As the adrenaline crashed through his system, Arthur could feel his knees shaking and he took the few steps to the bed and sank down, fists curling and uncurling. Eames was still crouched on the floor, watching him.

They listened to Dom comfort Mal for a few moments, Arthur trying to slow his heartbeat, every anger management class he'd ever been in screaming at him not to make it worse.

"Arthur?" Eames asked, tentative. "Are you alright?"

"You shut up," Dom barked at Eames from where he stood, Mal pressing her face into his shoulder. "You sold us out, you piece of shit. Get the hell out of this room before I—"

"Before you what, you pencil-pushing dick?" Arthur roared, standing, his rage finding a comfortable target. "He didn't sell us out, Dom. Only an idiot would think Eames _wanted_ that to happen just now."

"Of course he didn't want it to happen! He was supposed to be on the other side of the gun! Jesus, Arthur, if you could think with the big head for _once_."

"Fuck you."

Arthur scowled hard enough Dom flinched. "Wait, I didn't—"

"Alright, Eames, let's go." Arthur stooped and fished around under the blanket before pulling out the gun he'd stored next to the PASIV under the bed. He checked the magazine and loaded the chamber.

"Next time, Mal? Just let me shoot him." Arthur shoved the gun in his belt and slid on his coat.

"Arthur, wait," Dom said, "I'm sorry, alright, I didn't… I was just upset. You don't have to go."

"No, I think you've got plenty of people to take care of right now," Arthur said, his voice sounding hard even to his own ears. "Why don't you go ahead and do that."

Eames, who had been standing unobtrusively in the corner, spoke up. "Arthur, you don't have to—"

"You, shut up," Arthur said, pointing at him.

Eames sighed through his nose. "Getting a little tired of that," he quipped without humor.

"Yeah, well, that's too bad. You're coming with me. After we get out of the city, you can do whatever you want." From his pocket, Arthur withdrew two boarding passes and threw them on the bed before slamming his suitcase closed and zipping it shut with sharp jerks.

Arthur yanked open the door and pointed with his chin for Eames to go, and Eames went readily enough. Which was good.

Arthur still wasn't sure what to think, so he shoved thoughts of Eames aside, like he should have done from the beginning. He was going to get any and all threats away from Mal, and if that meant taking himself out of the picture, so much the better for the kid. At least that's what he told himself as he looked back at the pair he'd spent the last several years of his life with. Dom looked shocked, like he had been sure Arthur was bluffing, and Mal just looked sad, both hands wrapped around her abdomen, tears drying on her cheeks.

"Drop me a line when the kid is born, yeah?"

And then he left. The door clicked closed behind him, Eames was waiting in the hallway, and Arthur just walked away.

Fate was laughing its ass off. Here Arthur was, next to a man he thought he'd never see again, 12 years of hard work for him to be back where he started. Except now he didn't know if he could trust Eames, and he didn't own a working PASIV. He did have his shitty watch back, though, so really, it all evened out.

"Arthur," Eames said, keeping pace next to him. Arthur ignored him. "Arthur."

The hand on his arm jerked Arthur to a halt. "What."

Eames looked stung, and Arthur immediately felt guilty. He tried to remind himself that Eames was a con man, a thief, and he didn't know the person in front of him. But Eames' eyes… Arthur felt like he could see into Eames' soul, and that soul looked pretty familiar. Those were the same eyes which had looked into his when Eames had grabbed his hand and asked if he could kiss him. They were the eyes that had widened when Arthur had lunged forward and kissed Eames instead. They were the ones that twinkled when Arthur handed him the coconut cream pie from the dessert tray, taking Eames' favorite cherry for himself, and then switching them when Arthur's back was turned.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean for any of this to happen," Eames said, his hand still on Arthur's arm, and Arthur could feel every point of contact.

He shrugged it off before it could affect him any more than it already was. "I know," he said, but softer, and Eames relaxed a bit.

"Come with me," Eames said, and Arthur blinked at him.

"Come with you?"

"Yes," Eames insisted, the beginnings of a smile on those well-known lips. "I've made a mess of this, darling, I'd really like to start again. I've got a place we can lay low for a while. At least let me try and make it up to you," he said. "Maybe this time I can steal a PASIV for you."

* * *

"Shit."

The welling of blood was immediate and Arthur grimaced and put his finger in his mouth. It wasn't the first time he'd cut himself on the wires of a PASIV, and it probably wouldn't be the last. His DNA was probably all over every one he'd built.

"What did you do to yourself? Oh, that'll need a plaster, darling. Let me get one."

They'd gone to London, of all places. Arthur had never been, for some reason, and Eames had looked delighted as he'd shown him the walk-up. As soon as Arthur stepped inside, he knew this wasn't just a place to lay low. This was home.

He'd been shown around the small apartment, deposited his suitcase in the guest room/office/home gym, and been taken on a sightseeing tour to the hardware store.

"There are so many places to see though, Arthur."

"You can show me later. I've got work to do."

He bought as much as he could remember he'd need, and a computer from the electronics store they'd visited next, Eames looking like a pouty child. Then Eames had bought the ingredients to make dinner, and apparently, passports.

Arthur looked at the man in front of him, tutting over the finger he'd pulled from Arthur's mouth and readying a band-aid.

"You're awfully distracted," Eames said. "What are you thinking about that's making you scowl so?"

And Arthur, who seconds ago wouldn't have been able to pin down what was bothering him, answered without thinking. "You called Sergio 'love'. Is that a throwaway term or…?" It wasn't a jealousy thing. It was tactical. Arthur needed to know how deep Eames was in this.

Eames hedged but applied the bandage with precision. "I call a lot of people a lot of things."

He released Arthur's hand, and Arthur scowled. "I can't believe you slept with him."

"Yes, well, you slept with him first."

Arthur shifted. He wasn't aware that was common knowledge. "Yeah, well, I slept with you first too," he grumbled.

Eames blinked and then chuckled, the same laugh Arthur would have known anywhere. Eames leaned closer and touched his fingertips, oh so gently to Arthur's jaw. "Yeah, you did, darling. And I slept with you first."

"Yeah. You did." Arthur swallowed, and looked into warm, gray eyes. "What are we doing here, Eames?"

Eames cupped Arthur's jawline in his warm palm, his thumb just brushing Arthur's lip. "I'm trying to woo you. Can't you tell?"

"Yes," Arthur said, his voice tight. "But I can't tell why."

Eames froze, and his eyes flickered up to Arthur's eyes from where'd they'd been resting on his mouth. "Is this about the PASIV?" he asked, a thread of anger underlying the question.

"That's what I want to know."

Eames dropped his hand and leaned back out of Arthur's space. "I guess once you finish it, we'll find out."

Eames stood and took his chair back to the desk, thunking it in place and lowering himself with his back to Arthur. Arthur pulled his other foot up on the bed and contemplated the stretch of muscles under the thin polyester of Eames shirt. They went back to work.

"Did you love him?"

He thought Eames hadn't heard him at first. He drew another line on the passports he was making.

"No."

There was certainty in his voice. _Did you love me?_ The question was on the tip of his tongue but he couldn't bear to hear the answer to that one. Arthur let it die there and went back to the PASIV.


	4. Chapter 4

"Oi!" came the shout from the living room. "I thought you were taking a break!"

"I am." Arthur directed his answer to his computer screen, putting the finishing touches on a tracking worm for one of Sergio's known associates. He'd need to call Jordan after this and make sure he'd done it right, and then he could duplicate it across the other aliases he'd—

"Arthur. This is not a break." Eames' head peeked around the corner at Arthur's workstation he'd set up on the unused breakfast nook, one half taken over by PASIV pieces and the other with his laptop and research.

Arthur blinked up at him. "What?"

Eames sighed a reprimand at him and walked forward, a bowl of popcorn in his hand. "I've got the film queued up and you're still at this same spot. Come on, darling, an actual break won't break anything."

"I'm not in the same spot," Arthur grumbled under his breath, getting up anyway. "I moved to the other side of the table."

Eames just handed him the popcorn.

It was nice, actually. They hadn't been in London long, but staying in Eames' flat, as he'd been instructed to call it, was actually kind of nice. Arthur was an expert at living alone, so he'd been worried they'd drive each other crazy. They'd been a little stiff at first, navigating cautiously around each other, but eventually he stopped looking up with Eames entered the room, and Eames made him a cup of coffee if he got up first, and it was… nice.

They padded out to the couch in their sock feet, and Eames pushed play while Arthur got settled, taking the snack from him and then passing it back, minus one handful. They didn't touch, and Arthur was grateful for Eames' distance. Eames had been very careful, although Arthur could feel his eyes on him every once in a while. And Arthur didn't think at all about Eames in a towel exiting the bathroom.

"Which one is this again?" Arthur asked in an effort to curb that train of thought before it got going.

"Shh," Eames instructed. "I've seen it, you haven't."

They didn't talk for a while, the heist movie Eames had picked keeping their attention. Until Arthur snorted at the horrible gun handling practices of the main character and Eames nodded beside him. "Going to shoot his mate in the face he keeps doing that."

Arthur couldn't help but grin at him, but Eames just looked surprised, his mouth full of popcorn. "Wha?"

"Nothing," Arthur said. "It was funny."

"Hmm," Eames said, turning back to the screen. "Not for his mate. Five pounds says him keeping his finger on the trigger at all times is going to kill someone accidentally."

"I thought you'd already seen this one."

Eames shrugged. "I lied. It sounded familiar."

Arthur just shook his head. "Where did you learn about guns?" he asked, stealing a handful, already pulled out of the movie.

Eames licked salt off his lips. "Same place I learned about dreamshare. Royal Marines."

It was like shutters being pulled. Eames faced the screen, but Arthur could tell he couldn't see the movie anymore. Arthur pulled a knee up so he could turn slightly and face him better. "What were the Royal Marines doing with dreamshare?"

"Probably the same thing as the Army," Eames snorted. He paused, choosing his words. "It was part of the Training Center."

So they were training new recruits to be soldiers. Sounded familiar. Nothing like shooting someone in the face to turn an 18 year old kid into a hardened veteran. Arthur would have nodded, or groaned his understanding, or commiserated, but Eames was a thousand miles away. He turned down the volume instead. "What happened?"

Eames breathed out through his nose, long and loud. His fingers twitched, a nervous habit that he quickly stilled by rolling his hand into a fist. Then he reached for the scar on his chin, one thumb drawn across it. Arthur had noticed it the first time he'd seen Eames, hidden in stubble but so obvious to him when it hadn't been there before. Then, pulling down the collar of his shirt, Eames showed Arthur another scar on his trapezius muscle. There was one horizontal scar, about three inches long on the front, and another, slightly larger, matching one on the back.

"Jesus," Arthur breathed, leaning forward in the dim light to see it better. A knife wound, through and through from what he could tell. It would have required stitches. Eames pulled his shirt closed before Arthur's fingertips could graze the raised scar, an indication he hadn't gotten them. Arthur pulled back, embarrassed that he had almost crossed that particular boundary unsolicited.

Eames was still watching the screen without seeing it and ate another piece of popcorn. He didn't say anything else, but Arthur kept staring, expectant, and after a moment, he continued.

"We was mates, he and I. Hooked up a few times, but mostly we just got on."

Arthur didn't flinch outwardly and Eames kept talking.

"We was supposed to switch off roles, to practicing getting information out of a witness. One of us was supposed to be the informant, one of us was supposed to encourage him to talk. But he said he couldn't hit me, let alone shoot me, it was easier for him if I…"

Eames licked his lips again, and Arthur thought he might be done talking. He placed a hand on Eames' forearm and felt the flex of muscle as Eames made another fist.

"Anyway," Eames cleared his throat, "the Lieutenant-Colonel found out he was skipping his turn and came down with us on the next run. And he still couldn't do it. Even with someone insulting him and a bag over my head, he couldn't pull the trigger. Even knowing it wasn't real."

Eames still didn't turn to face him, jaw clenching and a pain Arthur could only sympathize with in his eyes.

"When we woke up, he lost it. I came over to check on him and he pulled his knife out and spun me round, held it under my chin. He was screaming at our CO, something about being able to do it when it counted, and we were all trying to talk him down. I don't know if he couldn't hear us or if he just didn't want to hear us, but he stabbed me in the shoulder, took the sidearm out of my holster and…" Eames mimed putting a gun under his chin. "Pfft."

Arthur squeezed his forearm, trying to offer reassurance, or solidarity, or something. Just to let him know he wasn't alone. He couldn't tell if Eames felt it or not.

Eames took a deep breath. "And after that, I was done. They said he didn't know he was awake, but he knew. He just," Eames deflated a bit, "he didn't want that to be his reality anymore. And I didn't either." Eames finally, finally, turned to face Arthur, lifting his eyebrows, his voice rising. "So. I asked for my walking papers and they handed them over, no muss, no fuss. I heard the rest of the project didn't last long after that either. Besides, you lot had already jumped ship." He grinned at Arthur, already shutting everything else away.

But Arthur wasn't done with him. He wasn't going to let that Eames go— the one he knew. The one he finally recognized.

"What was his name?"

Eames looked down at Arthur's hand on his arm and moved to grasp Arthur's fingers in his. He was quiet as he traced them with his other hand, studying them in the flickering lights as the credits rolled. "It doesn't matter. He's part of my past. And I'm more interested in my future."

Arthur shifted, and Eames met his eyes. "Do you feel that way about everyone from your past?"

Eames smiled at him, clear-eyed and soft. "Shite, Arthur. You've never been in the past for me. You're a constant."

Arthur closed his eyes as Eames leaned in to kiss him, sweet and slow. It was a kiss that spoke of a hundred movies, a thousand afternoons. And Arthur had wanted to comfort Eames, but it was he who felt known and safe.

The mostly empty popcorn bucket tumbled to the floor as Eames' bulk pushed him into the couch cushions, except this time they didn't have to worry about cleaning it up before their parents got home. This time, it was up to them if they wanted to stop. And Arthur really, really didn't.

He pulled Eames' face to him, deepening the kiss, tongues flirting, then exploring. Arthur thought it would feel familiar, but it wasn't. Every electrifying second he was pressed against this man was brand new, and Arthur's entire being was screaming right here, right now. Eames' hands roamed Arthur's sides, making their breaths quicken and Arthur knew what he wanted. He wanted the rest of Eames' past and all of his present, and maybe, if fate didn't fuck him over, as much of his future as he could get his hands on.

He tilted his hips up to rub their groins together and caught Eames' groan with his mouth. "Eames," Arthur breathed against his lips, and Eames knew, rocking them together, his tongue mimicking his thrusts.

Eames pushed back, both of them breathing hard, and looked into Arthur's eyes. "Yes, darling?"

"I want this," Arthur said without hesitation. Eames smiled at him, those wonky teeth making his heart skip a beat, and for the first time in a long time, he and fate wanted the same thing.

"Good. Because you're driving me mad. Those basketball shorts of yours make me feel 17 again."

Arthur grinned. "Remember that time—"

Eames groaned. "God, yes. Think about it all the time."

His length slid along Arthur's and Eames caught Arthur's mouth in a kiss, and Arthur let himself be overwhelmed, let himself take what he wanted, and let himself focus on nothing except making Eames feel good. Even afterward, pressed against Eames' too-warm skin, their release pooling between them, he refused to think about how if Eames had given him a name, he could have verified his story.

* * *

Arthur set up the finished PASIV and decided that fate could just stay over there and he would stay over here and they would get along just fine. No need for hate or bribe attempts, they could just peacefully co-exist without one imposing their will upon another.

"Who's dreaming, love?"

Arthur blinked at the endearment but just passed him the IV line. "I will. My projections are less likely to freak out if I'm running the tests on myself."

"Fair enough."

They hadn't talked about sleeping together, but Eames' casual touches were frequent, and he dropped the occasional kiss on Arthur's lips when he handed over his coffee in the morning. It hadn't happened again, and Eames seemed content to wait for Arthur to initiate anything more. But Arthur felt on edge most of the time. In more ways than one.

He looked over at Eames, squeezing his fist several times in preparation. He lined up the needle, then set the line down, got an alcohol swab, wiped his wrist, and picked it back up. Then made a fist again. Then lined up the needle. Eames took a deep breath and let it out, slowly. He made a new fist. Took another deep breath. Adjusted his feet. Resettled his weight. Cleared his throat. Lined up the needle. Glanced at Arthur.

"Need some help?" Arthur asked dryly.

Eames flashed him a bright smile. "Nope, right as rain."

Arthur watched him complete this entire charade again before sighing and kneeling next to him.

"Guess your mom was wrong. You didn't outgrow it." Arthur took the needle out of his hand and grabbed Eames' wrist, turning so his body was between Eames and the needle. "You know, lots of people have trouble with needles. It's nothing to be embarrassed about."

Eames' laugh was only slightly shaky. "Who's embarrassed?"

Arthur said nothing, just found a vein as quickly and efficiently as possible, pinching the meat of Eames' palm between his fingers to take his mind off the sting of the needle. The whole thing took less than ten seconds, and Eames discretely wiped a film of sweat from his brow when Arthur straightened.

"So!" Eames said sunnily. "Our first time dreaming together. Anything I should know before we go under?"

He said it with an eyebrow waggle but Arthur's smile was subdued. He looked at Eames, assessing. "Yes, actually. My security is going to run you down hard."

Eames only laughed. "Well, then. I shall lead them on a merry chase, shan't I?"

Arthur's lips twitched, but his hands didn't stop fussing with the dials. He was on a precipice here, and Arthur forced himself to acknowledge what he hadn't been able to look at head-on. The PASIV was done— after this test run, he'd know for sure if it worked. If Eames were hanging around just to get his hands on it, this would be it. And them sleeping together would have been nothing but a ploy.

Arthur knew exactly what Arthur-from-the-last-12-years would do. He'd kick fate in the balls and run before it could get back up. He'd pack up the PASIV and prove he could fall off the grid completely. He'd start over. He'd sell insurance or something, anything to get out of dreamshare. Until he could forget and find someone to fill the void Eames had left so many years ago and widened so recently.

Eames gave him a questioning smile, hand held uncomfortably still as he waited for Arthur to start the run. He was so different from who he'd been and yet whenever he was nearby, so much of Arthur remembered. He didn't just remember Eames—it was as if he was remembering himself.

Arthur didn't want to leave. He side-eyed fate, set the timer on the PASIV, and pushed the button.

* * *

"Why, you cheeky bugger," was the first thing Arthur heard, and he shook his head to clear it as Eames chuckled.

They were standing in his childhood bedroom. Arthur frowned to cover his blush. "Well, this isn't an office building."

He turned to see Eames standing in his doorway, his broad shoulders wrapped in a gorgeous dark gray suit, the shirt beneath showing a hint of artistic flair.

"Nice suit," Eames beamed at him, and Arthur adjusted the cuffs on the blue Tom Ford he'd been drooling over since last fall.

"I know," Arthur said, but he preened a little anyway, and Eames looked at him knowingly.

Arthur scowled. "You remember what you're supposed to be looking for?"

"Of course, darling."

Arthur tried bouncing a few times, the carpet under his feet exactly as flat as he remembered. "Physics seems stable enough so far. Give me ten minutes and then start keeping track of any bleeds or tremors or—"

"I said 'of course,' darling." Eames stepped into his personal space, running his hands up Arthur's arms, tracking the magnificent lines of the suit he'd dreamed up. "How much time do we have down here?" he asked, his voice low, his grin aimed at Arthur's mouth, and Arthur's heart sped up.

"Not enough time for that," he warned, and Eames tsked.

"I can be quick," he promised, nudging his nose against Arthur's own and sharing his air.

"I know," Arthur replied, letting his lips catch on Eames', resting there, adding his own teasing to the mix. "You should be less proud."

"Your fault," Eames said, a brief press of mouths, then a sweep of his lips over Arthur's. "You should be more proud."

Arthur rolled his eyes and allowed himself one short kiss before pulling away. "Go. See if the bridge is still there. Don't miss anything."

Arthur watched him duck out the window with a smirk instead of taking the stairs like a normal person and he found himself grinning instead of giving into his anxiety. Then he got to work. He waited for Eames to get into position before he started his litany of building scenarios and environment stability tests, before evaluating projection response. Despite being dropped into the incorrect build, everything else seemed sound. He observed his projections on the street, which were aware of his manipulations but not overly perturbed. He hoped Eames hadn't changed anything too drastically or he'd find out the hard way why Arthur had taken the time to warn him. Cobb hadn't believed him the first time they'd gone under together, and Arthur hadn't been sorry when Cobb had pushed too far.

"Jesus Christ, Arthur," Cobb had woken up panting. "You kiss your mother with that brain?"

Arthur, who had never been surprised by his projections' reactions and liked it that way, just shrugged. Arthur knew what he was getting when he went under. It made it easy to build and made it easy to tell if anyone else was trying to change things.

It also made it easy to see if his creation was running smoothly, or if his hardware needed to be adjusted. He checked his watch, writing everything in a notebook he'd dreamed up because he tended to remember it better if he could see it in writing. Everything looked clean. He should have been a lot happier about that.

But a clean run meant he had to face what was waiting for him topside— a reality he'd been avoiding since Eames had first unlocked the door to his flat and shown Arthur inside. He wanted to believe Eames was with him for no reason other than him. He wanted to trust that Eames wouldn't grab the finally finished machine and disappear like the fog. There was, unfortunately, only one way to test Eames' trust.

So when the timer went off signaling the end of his test run with Eames, Arthur faced the music with trepidation. The world around him, a mix of memories and easy possibilities, started to dissolve, and just before he blinked awake in Eames' living room, he smelled it. The waft of sickly sweet scent he'd kept locked up tight for years. But trust Eames to bring out the past in him.

Eames was watching him when Arthur opened his eyes, his IV already removed. He looked serious, drawn, his hands folded and his elbows on his knees. Arthur, a lump in his throat he didn't want to think about, busied himself disposing of the needles, wiping down the machine, and rolling the lines. He packed up the bottles of Somnacin, closed the PASIV gently, and stowed it under the sofa. When he was done, he faced Eames, ready, he thought, for Eames' decision.

Eames hadn't moved, held himself taut, and Arthur's throat was closing because he couldn't read the look on Eames' face. He didn't want this to be the end, here in London. He hadn't even seen the things Eames had promised him when they arrived, the places where he'd finished growing up. Arthur tried not to panic at the thought that Eames was going to apologize, call him "love" again, and leave him with nothing. Fate, rather than staying in its corner, was now kicking him in the balls.

"Arthur," Eames started, and Arthur wanted to stop him, to shove the PASIV at his barrel chest and tell him he could have it if he just wouldn't talk. Please, don't make it worse. Just take it and go, he wanted to scream. But he didn't.

When Eames didn't continue, his eyes on the coffee table and glancing at Arthur hesitantly, Arthur widened his eyes in a pissed off, "Yeah? What?" gesture.

Eames' eyebrows drew together for a flash before he seemed to shrug and said, "The bridge was there, and the environment was seamless the whole way. I didn't notice any bleeds," he continued, and Arthur scrambled for the Moleskine notebook he'd left on the coffee table to write it down. "And the physics stayed steady the whole time, although I felt lighter than I usually do?"

He wasn't… going to take it? The PASIV worked, it was a successful run, and Eames was sitting on the sofa going over the fine points of the dream.

"Uh, yeah," Arthur said, his hands trembling although he tried to hide it, "that's probably because we were working without a sedative, so that makes sense. Any, uh, glitching? Like, in the sky?"

Eames shook his head. "No glitching or tremors, but Arthur? Did you make any major adjustments just before the time ran out?"

Arthur frowned. "No?" The coconut hadn't been a deliberate change.

"Ah. Must have been me, then. Eames raised an eyebrow. "You were right, darling, your projections don't like me making changes much."

Arthur gave him an admonishing look. "What did you do?"

Eames broke out in a grin. "Let me show you."


	5. Chapter 5

_Before writing this one, I went back and made a few minor changes to the previous chapter to make it more tonally consistent with the rest of the fic._

The second dream _was_ an office building, finally, and Arthur took a deep breath to shake out the nerves. Eames was next to him practically bouncing on his toes and grasped Arthur's arm as soon as he made eye contact.

"Here, come see."

Eames dragged Arthur through the workspace, projections wandering busily through the area ignoring them for the most part. When Eames pulled him into the men's room and locked the door behind them, Arthur sighed.

"Really, Eames? In a public restroom?"

Eames gave him a devilish grin but just pulled him toward the sinks. "Just watch."

He settled himself in front of the mirror, hands braced on the porcelain, an intense focus in his eyes that made the hair on Arthur's neck rise.

When Arthur thought about it later, he tried to remember if there was a shimmer, or a sense of something shifting, but there wasn't. Between one breath and the next, Eames' familiar visage disappeared and Sergio's face looked out from above Eames' gray suit.

Arthur made a strangled noise and took a step back. Eames turned to smile at him, and was Eames again. Arthur stepped forward, hands tracking the scruffy jawline, fingers finding the scar on his eyebrow, the line on his chin, the curve of his mouth.

Eames let him explore, an indulgent smile on his lips.

"What did you do!?" Arthur asked, just as the projections started to rattle the door to the bathroom.

"Did you like it, darling?" Eames asked. "I can forge more than just documents, turns out."

"How? When? Can you do it again?"

Eames laughed and nodded, then turned to the mirror again. The transformation this time was even faster. This time, instead of Sergio, Arthur's mom stood in Eames' place. And instead of Eames' hair and clothes, she wore the severe pencil skirt suit Arthur remembered from his youth, although now her hair and face showed more signs of wear than the Eames version in front of him.

"Holy shit, you can change their clothes too?!" Arthur couldn't help himself, he had to reach out and touch the new face in front of him. He could feel the curl of her hair, the way she was just an inch shorter than he was, he could even smell a whiff of her perfume.

"I can't do voices just yet," Eames' accent lamented from his mother's face, and that was jarring enough to make Arthur drop his hands. "But I'll get there. A few more test runs, I think."

Arthur stared at him, amazed and intrigued, as the door squealed under the onslaught from the other side. "How? When? _How?_ "

In a blink, he was Eames again and he shrugged. "Dunno, really. I was thinking about how we can create buildings, whole cities, hell, even our clothes when we dream. But we can't create people. I tried to build a person at first, and that didn't go well. I also tried to change my mate into someone else, but that didn't work either. But myself…" He trailed off and shrugged again. "I'm pants at what you do, Arthur. But I'm a rather good liar. I thought I'd try my hand at it down here."

"Fuck," Arthur breathed. "That's the most amazing thing I've ever seen."

Then the door to the bathroom gave way and a flood of Arthur's enraged projections swarmed in, and then they were busy until the timer went off.

Blinking awake again in Eames' flat, Arthur nearly ripped a hole in his arm when he forgot he was still plugged in and tried to rush to Eames' side. Cussing and bleeding, he fired a thousand questions at Eames, who did his best to explain, and after Arthur had written down every scrap of data he could get, he sat back, exhausted.

"My god, Eames. This… does anyone else know you can do this?"

Eames ducked his head as if he were embarrassed, and Arthur boggled at Eames being embarrassed about anything. "Well, can't do it properly yet, can I?" He frowned. "Voices aren't as easy. I'll have to study accents, maybe get a dialect coach—"

"But Eames," Arthur insisted, "this could change the way we do extractions forever. Christ, Dom would love you until the end of time. Have you tried it real time? Like on a job?"

Eames tilted his head at Arthur and regarded him. "You're the only one who's seen it, Arthur. You're the only one on this planet who knows."

And Arthur stilled. He leaned back from where he'd been pushing into Eames' space, and looked at this man, who he'd been learning and remembering, and trying to keep at arm's length at the same time. Eames had given him a secret. Not a personal one. A professional one. One that Eames didn't have to share.

"You didn't have to tell me that."

Eames shrugged. "I wanted to."

"Why?"

Eames frowned. "Because I owe you, Arthur. I've taken so much from you, and I want you to trust me. I know you don't, quite."

He couldn't quite squash the flare of annoyance he felt. "What do you expect me to do with this information? I am not a secret keeper. I am a dream criminal."

Eames smiled slow and easy, despite Arthur's scowl. "I know. And I am impressed, Arthur, I truly am. Who would have thought you, Mr. Stage Manager of the High School Thespians Troupe, would end up here?"

"Well," Arthur said, straightening his waistcoat, "some of those skills transferred. Mal is very dramatic."

Eames barked a laugh. "I noticed." Then his face sobered. "Listen, about that. I apologize. I never meant to put myself between you and your team."

Arthur lifted a shoulder, unwilling to admit how much the apology meant to him. "Eames," Arthur said, elbows on his knees, Moleskin rolled between his hands. "I'm serious. I appreciate the trust, but I don't do this alone. I've always worked with Dom and Mal, and if you're showing me you can…"

"Forge," Eames supplied.

"... forge, the only way I can apply this is with a team."

Eames leaned back into the couch. "Well, darling, I may have a confession then about my motives."

Arthur closed his eyes and sighed. He had been childish to expect anything else.

"I was also hoping that by showing you the forge, it might get me an invitation to your team."

Arthur looked at his auspicious face and could still see the Eames he had known. He was still the smartass teenager who would crawl through his window or creep his fingers under the hem of Arthur's basketball shorts in the back of the bus. He also saw the Eames he didn't know, the one who hadn't needed to be taught how to be a criminal; he'd figured it out all on his own.

Well, fuck it. They were both criminals now. And back-of-the-bus-Eames still thought about his basketball shorts. "And now, Mr. Eames, I will always have to wonder if you ever do anything without an ulterior motive."

"Rarely," Eames said as he tapped his plush lips, thinking. "I find that one can usually acquire two birds with one stone, provided they time it right. And who doesn't want two birds?"

Arthur tried not to take that personally. He gave Eames a tight smile. "I guess you've got it all figured out then."

"Also rare, as it turns out," Eames mused. Then he grinned. "But now that you've got your PASIV in working order, I can help you with the rest."

Arthur blinked. "The rest of what?"

Eames' knowing eyes met his. "Sergio. And his team. I know you're looking for him. Let me help."

Arthur shifted uncomfortably and rose, moving to the small kitchen to make himself a cup of coffee and give his hands something to do.

"I've got a few things in place," he hedged. Arthur stuffed down the anger which flared when he thought of Sergio. They had fucked once, the second-to-last job they'd ever worked together. Arthur hadn't been able to _sleep,_ so he hadn't been able to _think_ , and he wasn't the kind of man to use four resources when he had five. That was all it had been. There were no feelings attached, and yet Arthur was still pissed. He couldn't imagine how Eames felt.

He had no idea what their relationship had been like, but Eames had called Sergio "love," and that sounded like something at least. But then he'd told Arthur he hadn't been in love. And now he was offering to help track him down.

"You do know what I plan on doing once I locate him, right? It's not going to be a nice, civil discussion."

"Trust me, pet," Eames said, arm across the back of the sofa as he watched Arthur. "I owe him one. Maybe even two."

* * *

"His name was Bugs," Eames said, his voice coming out of the dark just as Arthur started to wonder if he should go back to his own bed. Arthur looked over at Eames, the teal-blue glow of the alarm clock numbers bouncing off his skin.

"Well, Victor Martin, but everyone just called him Bugs." Eames' eyes were far away, a tiny, wistful smile on his face. "He was in training with me, so I knew him all the way up. Wicked smart, funny, never lost a hand of poker he didn't mean to."

Arthur said nothing, afraid to break the spell darkness and closeness had wrought.

"I was a bit in love with him, actually," Eames admitted, sounding embarrassed. "The only man who could rival you, Arthur." He turned to look at Arthur then, the light shining off his smile.

"I'm sorry," Arthur said, brushing aside Eames' deflection, and he meant it.

Eames rolled closer, his fingers on Arthur's shoulder, tracing down his side. "'S okay," he hummed. "How could I think of anyone else when I've got you in my bed again? Color me surprised that it happened at all," he chuckled. He dropped a kiss on Arthur's skin. "Do you think it could ever be the same between us? Or are we too different now?"

It seemed rhetorical, as Eames kissed his way down Arthur's lax body, no intent, just touching, tasting, for the joy of it. Until that moment, Arthur thought Eames already believed it was the same. "I don't know," he answered honestly, wishing it wasn't the truth. "But I look at you, and sometimes you don't seem different at all."

Eames smiled against his skin, hovering over Arthur's back. "What can I say. You make me feel like a bloody teenager again." He kissed the dip of Arthur's spine. "Sometimes you seem the same as you were." He kissed his way even lower. "And sometimes, you're brand new."

"Yeah?" Arthur asked over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised.

Eames' grin shone. "Yeah. I like it."

Arthur snorted. "Yeah, well my refractory period isn't the same." He was ignoring how Eames' kisses seemed to be making a liar out of him.

Eames gave a small shrug, still grinning. "Doesn't matter. I don't have a curfew anymore."

* * *

Eames' face was buried in the bedding, deep breaths in the darkness, and Arthur eased himself off the mattress, making sure Eames' slow breaths stayed even. He eased Eames' door closed behind him and with a bitter taste in his mouth, did what he knew Eames expected him to do. He looked up information about Bugs.

He found information with simple web searches, easy and obvious documenting of his service and a public obit. He was good looking— blonde with a wide grin and slight buck teeth, and he looked painfully young. And Arthur, hating himself, knew everything he found would have been exceedingly easy to plant. There was nothing he couldn't have duplicated given a day or two prep time, and as he told himself to drop it. _Just believe him_ , he told himself, even as he picked up a burner phone and dialed, _you want to believe him._

" _Hello?"_

"Hello, is this Mrs. Martin?"

" _... Yes, who is this?"_

"I'm sorry to call so late, ma'am. I just wanted to tell you that I'm sorry about your son."

There was a pause on the other end, and this was it. Either she knew what he was talking about, or she didn't.

" _... who did you say this was?"_

"I didn't," Arthur said, his stomach sinking. "My name is Alexander."

" _Well, Alexander,"_ she said, and Arthur held his breath. " _I appreciate you calling. You know, it's been years, but grief doesn't exactly have a stopwatch, does it?"_

Arthur tried to breathe normally. "No, ma'am."

She sighed. He could picture her settling back into a recliner, rearranging the crocheting on her lap. " _Other people forget, after a while. But for me, it's something I have to re-face every time I wake up. I suppose you know what I mean, if you're calling me now, after all this time. How did you know my Victor, Alexander?"_

"I didn't know him well, actually. I'm just familiar with the circumstances in which he passed, and I thought I would—"

" _You are?"_ she interrupted, sounding alert, and Arthur kicked himself. " _Could you tell me what happened? No one would tell us anything, and we've been waiting so long for them to declare the files unclassified. We just want some closure, you know?"_

"I… well," Arthur grimaced, "I'm not at liberty to say, exactly…"

" _Are you part of the declassification committee?"_

"Yes, exactly. I'm part of the committee. We haven't come to any conclusions, but I just wanted to extend my sincere apologies for your loss."

She sounded a bit stiff as she said, " _Thank you."_

Arthur hesitated, then said, "I have to go now, but… I wanted you to know that Bugs, I mean Victor, at the end… he was surrounded by people who cared about him. He wasn't alone."

He could hear her crying and he waited, uncomfortable, until she managed to say, " _Thank you_." He murmured a response and hung up, and then jumped out of his skin when Eames spoke up from the darkened doorway.

"Couldn't wait until the morning, hmm?"

He didn't look angry, but Arthur watched him warily. "You knew when you gave me his name I was going to check."

"Suppose I did, at that," he murmured. He approached Arthur, and ran a dry palm over Arthur's bare shoulder. "Want a coffee?"

"Uh," Arthur looked at the clock. "It's 2am."

Eames moved through the kitchen anyway, preparing the machine with slow, deliberate movements. "Won't be able to sleep anyway."

Arthur closed his eyes and wanted to cuss. "Alright, yeah, I guess." He felt like he'd been handed a test, and then when he passed, the teacher looked like he'd let him down.

When it was ready, Eames brought him a mug and settled on the far end of the couch, his sinful lips blowing across the top of his own. Arthur sipped at his, cream and sugar even though he hadn't taken it like that in years, and he decided it was actually okay. It made him feel warm and content, not wired and on edge like the black coffee he drank to the dregs on jobs.

"I've wanted to do that for years," Eames said, lighthearted and casual.

Arthur looked up, confused. "Do what?"

"Ring his mum," he said. "Now I realize I probably just should have. So thank you."

Arthur huffed. "You really shouldn't be thanking me."

"Mmm," Eames hummed around his coffee, "no, probably not. But I'm sure she appreciated the call, and so I do too."

Arthur fiddled with the handle of his mug, guilt and righteousness warring in his belly. "Eames," he started, and Eames looked up at him like they were discussing the weather. Arthur sighed. "I want to believe you. I thought that checking everything would let me do that, but it's just making me more paranoid, and I can't…"

 _I can't keep doing this,_ he wanted to say. _I can't keep searching for you in a different body for the rest of my life. I can't bring myself to distrust you completely, not when you trust me. Not when I want to give you everything._

Eames just watched him, letting the silence stretch. Arthur licked his lips and swallowed. "I can't keep tracking down every single thing you say. I don't have time for that and it's time to put our cards on the table." Eames appeared unperturbed and Arthur took a breath. "Do you want the PASIV?"

Eames cocked his head like a puppy and waited.

"I mean," Arthur said, scooting toward the front of his chair and setting the mug on the table in front of him, "if that's why you're here, you have a choice. You can take it and go, and I will put you at the bottom of my list, after Sergio and his team. Or you can stay, and I will trust you, and I will vouch for you to Dom."

Eames didn't move except to take another sip of his coffee. Arthur fidgeted. "Say something."

He didn't at first and Arthur would need to breathe soon so when he finally started talking, Arthur felt a little lightheaded.

"Do you know why I kept on? After Bugs?"

Arthur gaped. "What do you mean?" Surely he couldn't have considered...

"I mean in dreamshare. Why I kept going under, even with the violence and the needles and memories?"

Arthur frowned, considering. He thought about why he kept dreaming, despite the all those things Eames listed, and a few of his own. "Because there's nothing else like it," he finally said, his voice thin.

"Yes. Because you know everytime you dream, you're not going to get that experience anywhere else, not in a thousand lifetimes. You were like that for me too."

Arthur jerked his eyes to Eames'. Eames sipped his coffee, his face hard, and said, "I would have done just about anything to get another chance at either. But dreaming was the only one I thought possible. And now, here you sit, offering me only one of those, but with either a threat of violence or begrudging trust." He frowned. "You are not the same man, Arthur. You used to love with your whole being. What in God's name happened to you?"

Arthur felt stung. He scowled. "You happened to me, you asshole. You left and you stopped talking to me. Or did you forget that part? 'You would have done anything,' bullshit. It's not like you tried to find me. My mom still lives in the same damn house. She kept the landline."

Eames didn't deny it, but he didn't soften either. "And now?"

"Now, what?" Arthur barked, and refused to cross his arms. "Now we've fucked, and you told me secrets specifically for the express purpose of getting me to trust you, so how could I not! How is that even possible." He glared his sarcasm.

And Eames, god damn him, was too hard to read. He licked his lips and drained the rest of his drink. "I won't ask what it'll take because I don't believe you even know. If you figure it out, you let me know."


End file.
